I could not convince her to make a break for it.
I was both disappointed and relieved. After cooling our heels in the waiting room for the better part of an hour with my girl coughcoughcoughcoughcoughcough oh my god make it stop coughing all over the air that half a dozen newborn babes were sucking into their thimble sized lungs, we had finally been seen by a mildly dismissive resident and asked to wait for the doctor-doctor to sign off on the fact that my girl would need to present more impressive symptoms if she wanted to wow them. The prognosis itself was fine, I’ve been down this road a time or two. I’d decided at 4:30 am that my girl needed to have her throat looked at and her lungs listened to and I was following through with that plan, but I’m not one of those parents who pleads for antibiotics if no evidence of a bacterial infection exists. I just wanted to get out of there, and I knew that the attending physician was going to agree with her resident, why wouldn’t she? So as the minutes ticked by, I became more and more antsy and I tried to convince my girl that we should run.
I knew she wouldn’t do it. I wasn’t sure if I would, but I liked imagining how it would go down. I figured the staff would be in a frenzy, worried that they’d misplaced their very important patients, full of regret for the length of our wait, and so scared for our safety! Or, um. Maybe they’d be relieved. Or wouldn’t notice.
We never had the chance to see this fantasy to fruition, because the doctor eventually came and *gasp* she agreed with the resident and it was all a huge stinking heap of bullshit wrapped in healthcare that I’m grateful to have. Whatevs.
Sick days, though. Remember those? The delicious luxury of being directed back into bed on a school day? My girl is the kind of kid who pleads through her spewing lung spray to go to school. She missed two days in a row for this relentlessly gross cough. Monday dad stayed home with her, and when I called to check on her at lunchtime she was heating up leftovers while dad napped. That is called doing it wrong, like the time my dad brought me home after having my dislocated elbow set in a cast and handed me my brown paper sack to enjoy for lunch when the occasion clearly called for McDonald’s. Tuesday was my turn to stay home with our baby, and other than the doctor’s office debacle, I did it up right. Breakfast on a tray, pillow cloud on the couch with just-inappropriate-enough movies, bendy straws, and unlimited access to popsicles and lifesavers.
At any rate, everyone is back at their respective day job today. I want a popsicle.